And I saw her silhouette, backlit by a
make-shift sun, her hair draped
around her shoulder, her eyes

glittering

in tears, her smile I haven't seen for
years--it seemed. I have forgotten the
dirge when the bridge was burnt by

our

flaming hearts. Nothing was left but
ghosts and an urn of love letters. And here
again, I dreamt last night. And I saw

her

dress still resting on my restless chair,
as if no one left, nothing is lifted, not
even her goodbye, and my hello.
So I have to leave it to the clock to

speak,

for it confesses that I am weak.